


Pet

by anoneventuality



Series: His [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dark fic, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Isolation, Mindfuck, Post-Game(s), Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3538418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoneventuality/pseuds/anoneventuality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a dystopian post-game world the elves have come into power, and Trevelyan is now Solas's sex slave.</p>
<p>A prequel to the events of His: how Solas mindfucked Trevelyan into a semi-willing slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In response to this prompt at Dragon Age Kink Meme: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=51524981#t51524981 .
> 
> I decided not to repeat all the information contained in His; more details concerning what happened to Trevelyan before Solas/Fen'Harel found her can be found in Chapter 3 of that story.
> 
> This is a dark fic. You have been warned.

There were moments when he thought she was dead, after all, despite the faint echoes of her dreams in the Fade and the fact that the Anchor—the mark of his power she unknowingly bore—was clearly still out there in the world, still attached to her human arm. And yet, when there had been no sign of her for weeks at end, he wondered. Perhaps the thirst for vengeance that Elgar’nan had poured into the souls of the People had been too much, combined with Falon’Din’s bloodlust and Andruil’s waking the hunters in them. Perhaps the magic re-awakened in the elves had twisted the Anchor somehow, maybe transferring it to another upon her death.   
  
He is angry when he finds her imprisoned by a band of mercenaries, kept in a stinking cell, listless and haggard; and yet, it could have been worse for her. She could have been claimed by some petty elven lordling, thoughtlessly abused, needlessly brutalized where he would have offered kindness. He had watched her carefully enough during the time of the Inquisition to have assessed her true worth, and for a human, she deserves more than to be mistreated by someone who has only just received the gift of the Elven language and of basic magic, and who thinks himself high and mighty for that.  
  
The mercenaries are afraid of him, as they should be, and release her immediately at his demand. Then, however, when he waits for her to clean herself up a little in a nearby stream before she gets into the carriage, the mercenary leader plucks up his courage and approaches him, asking for payment for the months they have been taking care of Inquisitor Trevelyan. He could point out how obviously underfed they have kept her, for one, but instead of arguing, he laughs and promises a payment worthy of a god. The idiot mercenary joins in the laughter, obviously pleased with himself.  
  
He heals her wounds and bruises at the beginning of their journey to Halamshiral, while she asks about what has happened, what he has been doing, whether he knows anything about their other companions. He tells her of his release of the Elven gods—explains that he is one—and she listens, baffled. It is plain that she doesn’t yet fully understand the scope of what has been going on in Thedas for the last few months, limited by her humanity and her Andrastian upbringing. Soon, though, she will forget her Maker and worship him.  
  
She seems to spend half the journey napping, and the remainder of the time—eating. He is pleased to see her figure start filling up again soon, her curves becoming more pronounced under the simple dresses he got her to wear. He orders a detour for the party, prolonging their trip a few days to allow her to gain more weight; there would be little pleasure for him in fucking a woman that is skin and bones.  
  
It is early evening when they arrive in Halamshiral; he wakes her from another nap and hands her over to the maids, who are to help her get ready for dinner. She doesn’t find that unusual; she used to be Lady Trevelyan, after all, accustomed to being waited on. She is animated and perfectly lovely during the dinner, and looking at her, he finds himself all but at the end of his tether. He could give up on all pretence and have her now, on the table.  
  
Yet, he demurs, draws the meal out; the food is light but she is delighted to have a real dinner, at a real table, she says. He plies her with some sweet wine, which brings colour to her face, but he ensures she drinks enough water as well. She keeps calling him Solas, then smiling, apologizing for her slip of the tongue.  
  
He could wait a few more days and seduce her; she’s already half-way there anyway, judging by the way she looks at him. He could make her want him more before he took her to bed. But the only thing that would accomplish is make her think that any of this is of her own choosing or that her willingness matters in any way. It does not; not in the slightest.  
  
“Come with me,” he says; she follows him to the upstairs bedroom, looking around curiously, unaware of the soft tendrils of his magic already coiling around her body. He pulls her close to himself and kisses her hungrily, opening her mouth with his tongue, then, after a moment, grazing her lip with his teeth. She is surprised, her eyes widening, but she doesn’t try to push him away, not until he starts undressing her. This is when she discovers that his magic has been weakening her.  
  
“Solas,” she says when he lets go of her mouth. “What are you—” He tears off her dress, and pushes her to the bed, to lie on her back. “Solas, no,” she gasps, as, already naked, he straddles her, and, pinning her down to the bed, kisses her neck and then her breast. He uses more than a generous helping of magic, first to subdue her, and then to elicit pleasure from her more easily. She seems shocked to realize how intensely her body is responding to him; if he were merciful—or anything less but a god—he would have finished this fast, granting her a reprieve and himself a quick release, which would abate him until the next time. But he is not merciful, and he had been forced to only look at her for months on end when she pranced about as Herald of the Andraste, and he had spent months on end imagining how he could bend her human body and mind to his will. So he takes his pleasure of her now, as much as he wants, as he has ever wanted, deaf to her protests, impervious to her feeble attempts at struggling; he makes her come for him, time and again, turns her over at one point, fucks her from the behind, pushing her face into the pillows. She can but whimper, quietly, by the time he climaxes, burying his cock deep inside her cunt.  
  
She tries to creep away from him when he pulls out and momentarily frees her, but he pulls her up, makes her sit on the bed and face him.   
  
“You are mine, now,” he says, calmly.   
  
Very slowly, she shakes her head.  
  
“No. Never.”  
  
And with that, it is time to commence her training.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

She is scared when he raises her off the bed after her denial of him; scared all anew, and almost sick to her stomach. Her cunt is still pulsating, her inner thighs slick with his come, and the thought feels revolting to her.

He carries her to another room, a smaller one, almost empty for a bed, onto which he throws her, flat on her stomach. Without any preamble, he summons a coil of rope, binds her wrists together and secures them to the headboard; he uses two more lengths of rope to tie her legs to the posts at the feet of the bed, spreading her out. She tries to thrash about as he binds her, protest at length, but he subdues her with magic once again, making her muscles go slack long enough until she is rendered immobile by the restraints.

“This will do for now,” he says finally. He manipulates a small pillow under her head, turning her to lie on the side of her face, and then takes a step back.

She has read enough trashy stories to know that she should expect at least a spanking. What he does, however, after just a few moments, is retreat out of the room, leaving the door open. She thinks he lingers in the doorway for a time, taking her in, but she might be mistaken; she never hears his footsteps retreating down the hallway.

After a few minutes, when she realizes she will be sentenced to lying in this position for Maker knows how long, she starts trying to test the strength and the snugness of her bonds. At the beginning, she carefully pulls one at a time, first the ones around her hands and then those at her legs; when this proves futile, she attempts fighting them with more strength, all at once, hoping that one of the bonds will be weak enough to make it possible for her to free herself, some way, somehow. But the ropes are magic, and clever magic at that; it takes her some time to figure out that every time her struggling intensifies, the bonds grow tauter, tugging ever stronger at her limbs. Conversely, when she rests, they appear to relax, even allowing her a little leeway to adjust her position when it grows too uncomfortable.

She starts screaming then, begging, shouting for help, cursing, and when words elude her, just wailing. She keeps this up for a while, until her voice grows hoarse, but nobody shows up, neither to free her, nor to silence her. Finally, she begins to weep, pitifully, sobbing as she at least considers her situation, Solas’s betrayal, remembers her stupid naive hope that he would make everything better. She cannot comprehend how he could have treated her this way, with such utter disregard for her unwillingness. 

She has long managed to weary herself down with crying and calm down a little when he returns to the room, his footsteps soft but deliberate as he approaches the bed. He puts his hand on her neck, strokes her gently and she tenses. His fingers massage the knot of muscle and nerves at her nape, before sliding lower, between her shoulder blades, moving in small circles; he must be drawing on some magic, because his touch sends pleasurable sparks throughout her body. And it has been so long since anyone touched her with any tenderness that she is almost inclined to just allow him that slow caress, until a full awareness of the situation hits her again.

“How can you treat me like this, Solas?” she asks, her voice weak, and still heavy with tears. “I am human, _how can you_?”

“Yes,” he says, not drawing his hand back, sliding it lower still to the small of her back. “You are a human. Rather enticing for one, smart enough, and capable of exceeding when you dedicate yourself to a task at hand, but still only a human.”

“No,” she whispers when he turns to stroking her ass.

“You are now confused and afraid, and no wonder,” he says. “But not for long. It will be easier for you soon. I will give you rules and restrictions, and you will grow accustomed to following them in no time. I will teach you to enjoy your new life.”

“You want me trained,” she says, unable to convey the full horror of the idea with her tired vocal chords, not with his fingers brushing against the cleft between her buttocks. “Like, like a real slave.”

“A pet, perhaps, if you must,” he says, and slides his hand lower, until he touches her pussy; the magic he has been coaxing throughout her body seems to come to a release now, and she grows inexplicably wet. “But yes. You will obey me. It will be your sole task, from now on, to obey me, to the best of your abilities, in whatever I will want from you.”

“What… will you want from me?” she asks in a small voice, tensing again when his fingers start playing with the folds around her cunt, with her clit. She wishes she could close her thighs, but even a smallest attempt makes the ropes at her legs spread her out even more.

“Not much, for now,” he says after a longer moment, focused on stroking her. “You will have a simple routine to follow.”

“And if I don’t?” she manages, barely trusting her tongue to speak.

“A punishment, of course. A mild one, these first days, just so you can wrap your mind around the concept. An hour spent alone in an uncomfortable position. A climax you don’t want. But you will be able to take more soon. And you will learn to surrender to me.”

The pressure in her lower belly seems to be mounting now, his fingers increasingly insistent on her clit. Her body is giving in to him, even as her mind recoils at his promises, his matter-of-factness. She lets out a strangled whimper as she comes, hoping this will placate him some, but he continues to torment her for well after her orgasm dies, until he cajoles another one out of her, making her moan, involuntarily.

“You will sleep bound to this bed tonight,” he says a few minutes after; he has freed her from her previous restraints, and she tentatively sits on the bed, dazed. “You will be able to move around a little, especially if you relax, and you will have a bell within your reach to call a maid in case of an emergency. But you need to tell me, now, if you will be able to keep silent throughout the night. If you intend to give another performance as the one earlier, and keep everyone up with your screams, I’d rather have you gagged. So make your decision, _Lady Trevelyan_.”

Her throat is much too hoarse for her to be able to scream anymore, and he must know this. She realizes, with a start, that she is actually considering acquiescing, promising that she will be silent—surrendering to him already, just for some basic comfort—and she purses her lips defiantly.

He laughs.

“A gag, then,” he says.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The first few weeks spent in his mansion are a toil, mental as well as physical. True to his promise, there is a routine to her days, and there are many elements to it that she wouldn’t have scoffed at just several weeks prior: lavish meals, baths at least once a day, a comfortable bed to sleep in. Somehow, though, she would not have pictured herself in restrains for most of the time; weeping and begging the servants to help her, although they do not even speak to her; trying to find a way to escape at every turn; being touched at his whim throughout the day, taken against her will every evening, his magic fooling her body into enjoying the act. 

The very first day, he seats her down in a sturdy armchair, secures her arms to the armrests and first seals the Anchor, proceeding then to tattoo an intricate pattern on both her forearms, in order to suppress her magic. He could be using a spell to do that—to keep her from doing magic ever again—but a tattoo, he explains, should be more expedient in the long run. She cannot fight him, and the pain might be dulled by his power, but she still protests and cries under her gag, while he speaks to her soothingly in Elven, words she cannot understand. He has her turn over then, and tattoos something on her lower back. Afterwards, he leaves her alone in the room and she weeps until she exhausts herself.

She thinks she will not be able to put up with living this way, that even if her body is compelled to tolerate it, her mind will never. He will have to get tired of her complaining, her resistance, and then, she hopes, he will perhaps spare her, somehow, let her go free. Yet the days bleed into weeks, and then into a month, and if he grows impatient with her, the only sign is that he has her gagged more often. She still tries to reason with him, appeal to the friendship she thought they’d had, but to no avail; he is not the Solas she knew anymore, even if she refuses to call him anything else. He tells her it will be easier for her in the future, when she begins to see this is all for her own good; assures her she will be permitted more freedom around the house once she accepts the situation and stops rebelling. There will be books, for example, and perhaps games of chess with the servants—unless she prefers diamondback, which could also be arranged—walks in the garden, as well as other ways to occupy her time when he doesn’t need her at hand.

In time, she starts dreaming of him every night, erotic dreams she’d never imagine her mind to come up with. In the waking life, she recoils at being bound and gagged, used by him and forced to come at his leisure. In the dreams, however, nothing surprises her, neither the painful nipple clamps she finds herself wearing one night, nor a collar and a leash that he puts on her in another dream before taking her from the behind, not being spanked with an implement whose name she’s not sure of, not even the time when she sucks him off in front of a fawning crowd. There is a comforting feeling to the dreams, the feeling of being in the right place and time. She desires him in all that he does to her, and practically melts at all his touch, grateful for the attention. She calls him _Fen_ _’Harel_ in the dreams, in reverence.

It takes her almost two weeks to figure out the dreams are not the product of her mind at all, but come from him, a testament to how mentally exhausted she has been from all the effort put into resisting him during the day. There is no one thing that tips her off; while she dreams about having piercings in her nipples that night, and being made to play with her breasts while he pleasures her, in the dream the idea arouses her. Then, however, on waking up, the thought strikes her: why would she ever dream about any of these things? More importantly, why would she dream about being safe with him?

She is afraid of falling asleep the following night and struggles to keep herself awake. She strains against the ropes binding her to the bed, making them stretch her out uncomfortably, as it is more difficult to sleep that way. She pushes her nails into her palms, tries pinching herself at her wrists, biting the inside of her cheek, all to stave off sleep. Somehow, she succeeds, only dozing off for a few minutes at a time, then waking with a start.

In the morning, she feels drained, the world coming to her as if through a mist. He seems amused when the maid brings her to breakfast, and says something in Elven that results in her restraints being put on more loosely than usual.

“Long night, Lady Trevelyan?” he says after the food is served, and she is too tired to come up with a smart reply.

After the meal, he pulls her up to her feet, takes in her droopy eyelids and the shades under her eyes; then he runs his hand over the neckline of the shift he’s had her wear.

“This has outlived its usefulness,” he says, and, before she has a chance to gauge what he’s getting at, he rips the shift off of her, leaving her completely naked.

“I—what?” she says, feebly. Her nipples grow stiff at the contact with cool air, and then she chokes back a soft, small noise when he palms her right breast and plays with it for a moment.

“It is time for you to get used to being undressed,” he says, and she blinks, still not quite comprehending what is going on. “Today, you will be sitting in my study, prettily bound and gagged… as a decorative piece, for my entertainment.”

“Undressed,” she repeats. One of the servants enters the dining room, and, after a quick exchange in Elven, starts cleaning up the table. Reflexively, she tries to cover herself up with her arms, but he pulls them away.

“Ah, no,” he says. “I will not have any of that. While at home, you will be completely displayed at all times, unless I want otherwise. Try to hide your prettiness, shield yourself from anyone’s sight, and you will be punished.”

She would be protesting and struggling more vehemently now, had she not been so tired. He must have planned for this, she realizes, the notion horrifying, and yet somehow impressive. In his study, he has her tied up in a semi-comfortable position sitting on a bench, albeit with her legs splayed open; for perhaps the first half an hour, she shifts around some, deeply conscious of the state she’s in, of his gaze. Then, however, her tiredness wins over, and she drifts away, fast asleep. At one point, she surfaces to consciousness as he takes out her gag, but when he leaves her alone after that, she only falls back asleep.

He wakes her later, undoes her restraints, pushes her to her knees and fucks her mouth, holding her chin in his hand. It feels oddly pleasurable, in her still groggy state, to just open her mouth and let him get what he wants, take him in as deep as she can—deeper than the previous times he had her this way. When he comes, she swallows it all, unprompted.

“Very good,” he says, the tone of his voice almost tender, and he strokes her, fingers lacing through her hair and then petting her neck, the caress startling but pleasant.

“Are you controlling my head now?” she asks him during the dinner, hours later, when she feels much more awake, able to reconsider the events of the day. The food that evening is exceptionally delicious, perhaps to serve as a distraction from the fact that she is naked at the dinner table. If so, it doesn’t quite work. She keeps stirring, trying to manoeuvre the chains that keep her arms secured to the table to protect herself a little from his gaze, from the servants going in and out of the room; she stops herself for a few minutes, mindful of his promise of punishment, only to begin anew.

“Why would you say so?” he asks, mildly.

“The dreams,” she says. “You have been making me dream all those things, haven’t you?”

For a moment, he looks almost smug, and she knows that should not have revealed so carelessly that he has got to her.

“Oh, those,” he says. “I’m afraid I cannot take all credit for them. Most of them had already been on your dreaming mind, right beneath the surface. Some even about me.”

She feels her face burn.

“I would _never_ —” she says, but he just smirks, and she squirms. She wouldn’t—she didn’t, did she? _Did she_?

“Perhaps one templar fantasy too many would be to blame? Or poor quality reading materials from the late Divine?” he teases. “I have wondered, did you truly ally the Inquisition with the templars because you thought the time magic at Redcliffe was too much to stomach, or did you wish for someone who could keep you in check?”

“You realize I had too many responsibilities to pursue a relationship,” she says, as primly as her compromising position allows. He laughs, and, emboldened by his apparently good mood, she asks, “And beyond the dreams? Are you mind-controlling me?”

“Now, what would be the point of that?” he asks. “You are making such splendid progress, after all.”

He can’t mean that, she figures out when lying in bed later, thoroughly fucked, her muscles sore from the exertion. This is just to fuck with her head even more: make her think she’s already where he wants her, so that she won’t bother resisting him anymore. Perhaps she should pretend she has fallen for the ruse, then; let him believe she has given up, and try to make her escape when he rewards her with more freedom.

Satisfied, she allows herself to fall asleep, almost forgetting to be uneasy about entering the Fade.

 


	4. Chapter 4

These early weeks are an exercise in patience.

At first, she is as wilful and rebellious as he’d thought, perhaps even a little more. She protests, cries, pleads with him to reconsider, disobeys, struggles when put in restraints: all tricks he has expected from her. She eats sparsely the first two or three days, behaving as if the superb quality of the food was an insult added to her injury, but then gives in, even asking for seconds at dinner, perhaps having figured out that refusing food will do her no good. She keeps blanching when surprised with his touch—although she seems to be quickly learning to anticipate it—but soon he requires less and less magic to elicit responses from her body, and the responses themselves grow more powerful.

He tells the servants to ignore all unreasonable pleas from her, to only speak Elven when she is in the room, in order to increase her uncertainty, sense of isolation. He plays with her dreams to confuse her some more, beguile her into thinking she could be comfortable with him. He soon notices that she is at her most receptive, most likely to behave herself when tired, and this is when he sneaks in words of encouragement and compliments to make her more susceptible. When she figures out the dreams for the ploy they are, he makes use of her exhaustion from lack of sleep to progress her to a new stage of her training, to start keeping her naked at all times. Too spent to protest, she is perhaps at her loveliest yet when she sleeps, bound, in his study, perched on a high bench like a rare object of art, soft breasts ready for his touch, tender folds of her cunt visible between her spread thighs. He praises her more freely that day, indulges her with caresses.

It seems that she has done some thinking, as the following day she appears suddenly more amenable to his wishes. A hoax, obviously: she might be clever, for a human, but she is hardly a great actress, and it is fairly obvious that every time she hesitates before following on some cue, pretending to make up her mind to be more obedient, she does so for a moment too long. He takes her to his study again, and she gives him a shy look when he fastens the restrains around her wrists.

“I… might be able to do without the gag today,” she says. Foolish human girl, hoping to outtrick the trickster.

“Very well,” he says, and retires behind his desk. There are some letters to be read, mostly coming from the still war-torn Orlais. He flips through them at leisure, every now and then glancing towards her naked form. Even despite her resolve, she appears distinctly uneasy displayed so, unable to move; on noticing him look, she squirms a little.

After some time, he gets up again and goes to her, puts his hands on her waist and runs them up her sides, strokes her breasts before touching her face. Her breath quickens, and so does her pulse.

“Perhaps a blindfold would make it easier for you,” he says, and she inhales sharply, her surprise apparent.

“If you think so,” she says after a longer moment; he leans forwards and claims her mouth in a kiss, intent on pushing her to the wall while she plays at being more subservient. He then leaves the room for a few minutes, and returns with a long piece of black velveteen, which he secures around her eyes. Her initial discomfort is palpable: she stirs and strains against her ropes, her breathing raising her chest in rapid rhythm. He eyes her unabashedly, brushes his hand against her hair and neck in a comforting gesture.

“You are beautiful like that,” he tells her, as she slowly calms down, uncertain, unable to see, with her mouth half-open, hair tousled, breasts heaving with every breath, half-aroused in spite of herself. “This look suits you.”

He comes up to her a few times in the next hour and a half, roams his hands freely over her body, and she shivers under his touch. He strokes her to an orgasm, at one point, making her tauten and then sag in her restraints; the sight gives him an idea to be filed for later. Finally, though, he releases her and relegates her to her small bedroom, providing her with a book as a reward for her good behaviour. She continues with her streak throughout the day, although at dinner she still keeps trying to cover her breasts with her arms and elbows upon seeing any servant; in bed, however, she seems almost wholly willing.

She is still pliant the next day, and he repeats the arrangements from the day before, restraining and blindfolding her in his study. He calls a servant in at one point, ordering himself some food and drink; later, another servant, to go over some provisions for a party he is supposed to attend. Any time she hears someone come in, she tenses and seems to try and shrink unto herself, only to find that she cannot; she must wonder what he is speaking about, whether he is not talking about her.

After she has spent enough time on her bench, he undoes her restraints, tells her another book will be waiting for her in the bedroom; then, however, before letting her go, he tells her to come to his desk and bend over it. For a moment she appears thrown, unsettled by the divergence from routine, but then she seems to find her resolve and makes her way to him. She only trembles a little when leaning over the desk, resting her weight on her hands, raising her shapely ass to him without any finesse. He slides his fingers between the lips of her pussy to find her moist; he moves them backward, to her ass, slickens them with magic, and slowly works a single finger into the opening between her buttocks. She gasps, muscles tensing, and he wonders how far her faked obedience will take her.

“You need to relax,” he chides, moving his finger ever so slightly in and out. “It is not so difficult once you do.”

He has his magic at the ready to help her, but, after several deep breaths, she actually manages to relax her muscles a little, allowing him deeper in. He plays with her for a while, moving his finger around, then inserts another one, causing her to tense again, waits a moment for her to catch up to the pace. Her discomfort is apparent, yet she seems to keep willing herself to accept his touch.

“You are doing very well,” he says soothingly. “You’re almost there.” Slowly, carefully, he pulls his fingers out, and then substitutes for them a small plug, made appropriately slick with magic; she gasps nonetheless. “There. Not so bad, is it?”

Her hand flies to touch her ass, try to examine the source of intrusion. She glances back at him, confused.

“Don’t bother trying to take it out,” he says, as she clenches her muscles again, attempting to eject the plug. He could make it so that it would enlarge, stretch her further every time she tensed around it, but decides there will yet come time for that, when she can handle more.

He tangles his hand in her hair, pulls her up straight and embraces her with one arm, lightly pinching her nipple until she gasps. He kisses her neck, inhales her scent before letting her free.

“Go and read your book,” he says.


	5. Chapter 5

It does not take her long to realize that there seem to be benefits to being more compliant; if nothing else, this takes much less effort than to remain actively contrary. For one, she is finally permitted some time that is supposed to be leisure rather than just exhausting isolation, a change that should be miniscule but feels monumental.

Yet, despite the initial promise that his demands wouldn’t be high for the time being, she finds herself introduced to new forms of torment, as he appears set on testing her will. A blindfold, which is supposed to facilitate things for her, but in fact puts her more on edge as she cannot anticipate his approach, his touch; when he says he likes her that way, she realizes she is likely to spend a lot of time with her eyes covered. A buttplug, the next afternoon, is more surprising than unpleasant: even so, she spends the next hour or so acutely conscious of its presence, clenching and relaxing her muscles around the plug, wondering if he is going to fuck her ass that evening. She has done that, a few times in a past that seems increasingly distant now, enjoyed it a fair amount, though always after a good few drinks.

And yet, when he comes to get her in the bedroom, he merely plays for a few minutes with the toy between her buttocks, pulling it out, sliding it back in. When he removes the plug for the last time, she is almost mortifyingly wet; he laughs on finding out, pushes her onto the bed and screws her, sheathing his cock deep into her cunt, making her lose herself in the sensation, moan as she orgasms underneath his body. The reaction shocks her, untainted as it is with the now familiar feel of his magic.

The next day, he puts the plug inside her again, this time when she is to take her seat on the bench in the study, her hands about to be bound—albeit more loosely than just two days before—to the frames on the sides of the bench. As he blindfolds her, she chastises herself for coming so undone at his touch; she should be pretending to be more obedient, but keeping her guard up at all time, trying to use the situation to her own advantage, to find a way to escape from him.

She is surprised, once more, when he leaves her hands and arms unbound for the evening dinner. Another test, she supposes, although he makes no outright reference to it being one. She tries to be mindful of the rules he has given her, not use the opportunity to hide her breasts—or her pussy—behind her hands, but still she doesn’t manage to catch herself in time on several instances. He seems not to mind, or, more likely, pretends not to mind; she realizes, all out of sudden, that he hasn’t been punishing her for doing that, and she wonders where that might lead them.

The pattern repeats over the following several days. At night, she dreams of him, the kind of dreams that she has already started to take for granted. During the day, he has her spend several hours with him, her limbs bound, a blindfold over her eyes, though not on every occasion. He takes her to the library instead of his study a few times, making her stand perhaps two feet from a bookcase, her bound hands attached to a hook over her head. An uncomfortable position, putting a strain on her arms and back; when she is let go, and allowed to sit on a divan opposite him, she can’t help but keep rubbing her wrists and shoulders. Seeing him pour over books reminds her of Skyhold, and she sighs, unable to focus on the volume she has been offered. He looks up at her sharply, quizzically, but whatever he sees in her face, he doesn’t comment.

On the next occasion they are in the library, a number of servants keep coming in and out while she is still displayed, most—if not all—openly stealing glances at her. She has been instructed to keep her legs apart, but it is almost too easy to forget, cross her legs and try to angle her body away from the onlookers, even though that, of course, would allow them all to see the fat end of the plug protruding out of her ass.

When the last of the servants leave, he gets up and approaches her, his step ever imbued with the grace of a prowling predator. He puts his hands on her waist, and turns her to face the room again, as if she were merely an object to be rearranged at his convenience. He stands behind her back then, clasps his hand around the back of her neck, almost painfully.

“You do seem to be craving a punishment,” he says, sounding thoughtful rather than angered; his other hand is on the small of her back, and he rubs her there in small circles. “I have assumed you to be more scrupulous in following rules.”

She almost apologizes, but bites her tongue, only to wonder whether she should, after all, to keep up the charade of obedience.

“It is difficult,” she says instead, in a carefully pleading voice. “Just to remember to hold still when everyone is able to look at me.”

“You shouldn’t be complaining,” he says mildly. “They know that aside from your maids, they are not to touch you. Not many humans are afforded that luxury. Quite a few are given to household servants on a regular basis, lest they grow too comfortable. Or, indeed, in order to punish them.”

For a moment, she forgets to breathe, repulsed to the bone by the idea of being _given_ to the servants, of strange hands over her body, of being used and fucked by all those elves who despise her very humanity, probably despise her current position, would love to see her even more humiliated than she has already been. She only realizes how deeply she must be blushing when he laughs.

“I expected you not to like that concept,” he says, yet mentions nothing about never allowing that to happen. She could beg him not to do that, she thinks; promise to do anything he tells her to without uttering a single complaint. This is followed by a saner thought: she has to get out of here, as fast as she can.

He kisses the back of her head, as if he could hear her thoughts, and she whimpers softly. He cups one of her buttocks, digging his fingers into her flesh the way he sometimes does when fucking her, the gesture familiar and, in some perverse manner, comforting.

“Solas, please,” she whispers, and stops, uncertain how to word her request. “Please don’t make me do that. I couldn’t, I, I’d… I’d rather take a different punishment.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” he says. He lets go of her for a moment, and then he smacks her ass a few times, so lightly that it doesn’t even really sting. She gasps out, audibly, and squirms, the memory of the spankings from her dreams coming to her unbidden.

“That… I wouldn’t mind,” she says, hoping she doesn’t sound too brazen.

“You should hope that your fantasies from the Fade do not misserve you,” he says, and swats her ass again, still almost too delicately; she is ashamed to realize she would like him to hit her harder, provide a counterpoint for the tension gathering in her pussy. Then, however, instead of delivering another blow, he starts undoing her restraints; once released, she turns towards him, surprised, her heart pounding.

“I have something else in mind for you,” he says in reply to her questioning gaze. “But that can wait a little longer. Come, sit with me.”

She takes a seat at his side this time, and he soon opens some tome in Elven, leaving her to her own book—an Orlesian chevalier romance, of all things. She cannot tell if he thinks her so silly to only enjoy literature of this kind, or if she should take it as another form of mistreatment. He touches her from time to time, her breasts, her neck and face, her sides, her inner thighs; he slips his hand between her thighs, stroking her moist lips, distracting her from the reading. When he finally tells her to get on her hands and knees on the soft library rug, she almost cannot think for wanting him. He fucks her long, hard, not bothering to take out the plug out of her ass before he penetrates her; the sensation of being so filled is strange at first, but gives way to pleasure soon enough.

“I should put a collar around your neck soon,” he murmurs into her ear, pulling her hair; she gasps. “A very fine collar, perhaps spun out of silk, at first. You will look lovely… and you will always remember you are mine.”

She cannot help but moan, and she tries to grind her hips against his as he gets a hold of her breasts, his touch rough when he cups them, digging his fingers into the soft globes before pinching her nipples.

“And when you are used to this nice collar, I will give you a sturdier one,” he says; his thrusts are growing faster, more shallow, and she keeps letting out little gasps of pleasure. “And then I will put you on a leash, my pretty little pet.”

Again, a Fade memory comes back to her, the image of him tugging on the leash around her neck while he fucks her in the exact position they are now, and she comes with a startled cry, her cunt pulsating violently around his cock. This almost seems to surprise him, for a change, and he orgasms faster than he usually does, driving his fingers so hard into her breasts that she will surely bruise. She lies on the rug for a few minutes after, calming down, collecting her thoughts.

He leaves her alone that night—there is some party he has been planning to attend, he tells her, and nothing more—and she allows herself to weep for a time, a pillow muffling her sobs. After that, she wipes the tears, and starts trying to plot her escape.


	6. Chapter 6

He half-expects her to make an attempt at running away during his absence, but when he returns to the mansion in the early morning hours, the household is quiet, peaceful, and the servants guarding strategic points of the estate report no disturbances. Indeed, she is still asleep when he gets to her small bedroom, curled under a sheet. He has been allowing her to sleep unbound for the past few nights, knowing this would leave her frustrated whether to try and make use of the newfound liberty or continue acting on her pretend obedience.

He wakes her, pulling the sheet off her body, taking in the delicious sight of her, running his hand over her back. She starts stirring after a moment, eyelids fluttering as she tries to cover herself back in vain. Normally, the maids are in charge of getting her out of bed, and he supposes they do so by ranting at her in Elven.

When she at last opens her eyes and looks at him, she smiles sleepily; then her consciousness kicks in, and the smile turns into a frown. He leans to kiss her, and when he pulls back, she whimpers softly.

“I will see you at breakfast,” he says; he leaves her to the maids to be washed, her hair to be done properly. Half an hour later, she takes her seat at the table, and he is finally able to fully appreciate the marks he left on her breasts the previous day, finger-shaped bruises on the soft skin. He imagines leaving a similar set on her ass; an idea to put into life in the near future. She notices the direction of his gaze and blushes.

“How was your party?” she asks, ever so polite.

“It was fine,” he says. “You were inquired about.”

“Me? Why?” Her eyes go wide at the idea.

“Many asked when I would finally bring you out in public. Show you off,” he says, enjoying her obvious discomfort. “They are curious to see what the Inquisitor has been brought down to, especially since they’ve heard you are quite charming, for a human woman.”

For a few moments, she sits wordless, her eyes fixed on her plate of fruit.

“And… are you going to take me visiting?” she asks finally, her voice weak.

“All in due time, when you are yet better behaved,” he says, studies her for a moment, and then offers, mercifully, “You would get to wear a dress for that, so perhaps this is something for you to look forward to.”

“Really? A dress?” she says, disbelieving, brushing her arm over her breast in a self-conscious motion even as she speaks. “I thought—”

“I told you only that you would have to be naked at home from now on, not if we go out,” he reminds her. “So, yes, a dress will be in order. In addition to your collar, of course.”

She flushes scarlet at that statement, thinking back, as he does, to the previous evening. He smirks: her compliance might be a facade, but even so, he has succeeded in getting under her skin, already more so than she had claimed she would ever allow him.

She asks him some small questions after that, about his outing, about Halamshiral and about the current state of the Elven Empire. It is not difficult to gauge that she is trying to find out more in case she manages to make her escape, but still, he provides her with information: enough rope that she could hang herself with it. There is no point in her trying to get away, silly girl; she would have to be able to pass for non-human to even make her way through the city, and should she manage to accomplish that, she would likely die in the woods soon after. But he would find her before that happened, now that he has claimed her as his so thoroughly.

When the breakfast is finished, he takes her to the drawing room, for a change. She pauses abruptly on seeing the armchair he had put her in for the making of her tattoos, and turns towards him, an unspoken question in her eyes.

“It is time for your punishment, Lady Trevelyan,” he says, and has her sit in the armchair, manoeuvres her legs so that they are spread out, uplifted and thrown over the armrests; he then binds her to the armchair so that she cannot move, magical restraints trailing around her arms and legs, and, carefully, around her torso.

“I don’t—” she starts when he reaches for a gag, but he shakes his head.

“I’d rather not take any chances,” he says, and secures the leather strap holding the gag around her head. He gives her a moment to calm her breathing; in turn, he takes a good look at her, splayed open, unable to cover her breasts, full and tantalisingly bruised, and her cunt, entirely exposed to his gaze, already slightly wet.

He snaps his fingers and conjures a small sphere of buzzing, vibrating energy, curls it in his hand for a moment or two, letting her take it in while he fine-tunes the frequency. She blinks, apparently still oblivious as to what he intends to do; then he places the sphere between her thighs, letting it float for a second before it presses right against her clit, and she inhales sharply.

He takes a seat in an armchair opposite of her, and watches on as she tries to get accustomed to the sensations; it takes a longer moment for her to come the first time, but when she does, she shakes beautifully in her restraints. The second climax hits her a few minutes later, soon to be followed by the third; this first wave will be pleasurable for her, he knows, watching her tense in anticipation of more, release the tension with a muffled moan as the fourth orgasm rolls through her. Then, however, as her body becomes overstimulated—but she hasn’t figured that out yet, he thinks. She comes two more times, and it becomes temporarily boring for him; he turns from her, opens a book, pretending not to hear the noises she is making in spite of the gag, her increasingly heavy breathing. She seems to be doing worse when left to her own devices, without his attention focused on her.

He does not actually get much reading done, but he pretends to flip the pages of the book, accompanied by her choked moans, now growing in urgency. When he looks up again, after ten minutes or so, she appears to have progressed to the point when the vibrations start bordering on painful; she strains, trying to pull herself back from the source of her discomfort, and encountering only the solid backrest of her chair. She is gorgeous in her helplessness, and he watches eagerly as she comes and comes again, shaking uncontrollably, still kept straight by the unforgiving restraints. She almost wails now, and when she comes yet again, it is clear it has already become too much.

There is a moment when the overstimulation seems to take over, and she rests a longer while, breathing rapidly and gazing towards the ceiling as the sphere still vibrates against her clit. He uses this pause to summon a maid, orders a pitcher of water and glasses to be brought into the room. The maid returns in no time, stealing a greedy look at the scene in front of her, the former Inquisitor making incoherent noises behind her gag, shaken by another bout of unwanted pleasure.

“You may touch her if you want,” he says in Elven, and the maid crosses the room to stand in front of Trevelyan, who only now looks up, as if previously unaware of the presence of another. The maid reaches out her hand and uncertainly brushes her finger on the Inquisitor’s clavicle. “Touch her breasts,” he directs, still in Elven, and the maid obliges without hesitation. “Grab them both. Stronger, she won’t break. Now pinch her nipples.” Trevelyan keens, strains to pull away from the maid’s hands and the sphere alike. “Good. Repeat that. And once more.” He looks at the Inquisitor, who closes her eyes, blinking back tears, as the sphere forces her to come again. “Good. That is enough. You may leave now.” The maid steps back, curtsies, and walks out of the room.

He waits some ten minutes more, watching her climax a few more times, each apparently more taxing than the last. Finally, he gets up from his armchair, and walks over to her. He undoes the strap of her gag first, and the moment her mouth is free, she starts to breathlessly beg him to stop torturing her; he smiles, and strokes her hair for a moment, before decreasing the frequency of the sphere to low buzzing.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” she gasps out, sagging against her restraints. He raises a glass of water to her lips and she drinks, greedily, some of the liquid spilling down her chin; he wipes it with the back of his hand.

“One more hour, I think,” he says, putting the glass on the table, and sees her eyes go wide. “I want to know you have learned the lesson.”

“N-no,” she manages. “Please. I can’t—aaah!” He intensifies the vibrations again, watches her struggle—with beautiful futility—in her bonds, trying and failing to inch away from the sphere. “No no no no no no please please no no too much no—” She mumbles, thrashing as another orgasm hits her. It is tempting to keep that going just for the sight of her.

“Would you like it to end sooner?” he asks, but her eyes are glazed over, and so he pulls the sphere a few inches back, repeats the question. She nods frantically, mouths something that sounds like “anything”.

“Well, then,” he says kindly, only to return the sphere to the spot on her clit. “Just ten more minutes.”

She cries out in protest, but he just goes back to his seat, not bothering with gagging her this time. She seems all but exhausted anyway, although she never quite stops protesting; he revels in the sounds she makes.

When he finally releases her, she slumps forwards in the armchair, unable to sit straight. He pulls her up, leads her to a low table in the middle of the room, where he pushes her to lean with her legs bent so that they are opened wide, makes her shift her arms until her hands touch her ankles; limp and drained, she allows him to rearrange her as he wants to, and doesn’t even protest the light magical restraints that help her stay in the position.

He strokes her inner thighs, and she whimpers when he brushes his fingers against the folds of her exposed cunt, swollen red, and evidently sore.

“I could call the other servants to come in here,” he muses, carefully sliding a finger into her. “Allow them all to touch you, see how heated and wet you are. And if you protested with even a word, I would just put you back in the armchair and have you come until you broke.”

She lets out a small sob, and he withdraws his hand.

“You don’t like this idea, do you?” he asks, sees her shake her head. To tell the truth, he does not enjoy it too much either, unless in the abstract for the unspecified future. “But, well, since you seem to have learned your lesson today—”

A hopeful nod.

“—I might be lenient this time.” He summons a spiral of ice on his hand, touches it to her abused clit, and she sighs in temporary relief. He doesn’t heal her, not yet; just provides a momentary respite before he takes his pleasure from her. He shrugs off his robe, lets it fall to the floor, his cock almost achingly hard from the time he has spent looking at her, ready to be sheathed inside her warmth.

He twines a different kind of magic between his fingers, slickening them, and when he slowly works to insert them between her buttocks, she is too spent to resist. As he finally pushes his way in, stretching the tight passage with small movements, she chokes back a wail; he paces himself at first, puts his hands on her hips, grinds against her slowly. Then, however, his thrusts become faster, less measured: her pleasure is irrelevant anyway for now, as another orgasm would only bring her more pain, exhausted as she is. For once he doesn’t prolong it all, and he digs his fingers into her shoulders as he climaxes, eliciting a keening noise, which is still drowned by his own groan of pleasure.

When he draws out of her, she is trembling, and seems absolutely drained; he heals her sore pussy, strokes her hair and back, telling her how beautiful she is, how well she has taken her punishment. Still, she doesn’t seem to be able to fully relax until he unties her and she can curl up on the table. He rubs the back of her neck, speaking softly in Elven, promising her to be gentler in her next punishment; the sound of the words appears to calm her down, until she eventually dozes off. In the end, he leaves her alone in the room for a time, having another maid collect her in time for a meal.


	7. Chapter 7

It is perhaps a week after that punishment in the drawing room that she attempts her escape.

By this point, if she were to be completely honest with herself, she is in two minds about it; all things considered, there is a kind of safety, of comfort, in remaining at the mansion, in submitting to his wishes. And if she is the one to make that decision, isn’t that better than— But no. No. There is no choice to be made, just _him_ tricking her into thinking there might be one. She must get away while she still recognizes that.

There is another party, a soiree he is invited to, and she does her best not to appear too eager for him to go. The hours drip through slowly, as if in a dream, until she is left alone at last. Another hour to pretend she has fallen fast asleep. Twenty minutes, half an hour, perhaps, to make sure there are no servants about. Then she glides off the bed to the floor, wraps a sheet around herself in a makeshift dress, a memory of games played with her sister coming to her aid; any luck, and she may pass for someone going home from a party. Down the hall then, carefully slowing down at all turns and nooks, down the stairs, across the garden, into the stables, where she hopes she might be able to steal a horse. The entire plan is far-fetched at best, desperate and hopeless to anyone with a sliver of brain, but she wants to at least try, at least get out into the Halamshiral streets.

They are _waiting_ for her in the stables, one of the maids and a servant she doesn’t quite recognize. She tries to fight her way out, but they subdue her with magic. A few minutes later, the maid leads her back up the stairs and into her room, her grip strangely powerful.

“Please, help me, let me go,” she says to the woman, her voice barely a whisper; she’s tried pleading with her before, time and again, eliciting no reaction. This time, however, the maid turns towards her sharply.

“Will you shut up, stupid shem bitch,” the woman says, the common tongue on her lips heavily tinctured with an Orlesian accent. “Why would I help you? I was born in the alienage. We’d all have killed to have it as good as you do.”

“Please, I cannot live like this,” she protests; once they enter the room, the maid pushes her, cursing in Elven, and she falls onto the bed. A spell binds her hands, and then her feet, together. The woman hovers over her for a moment longer.

“Any other would have long whipped you bloody and have you beg for mercy. Given you to the stable boys so that you learned what common elves will do with a shem slut. You’d come crawling back, asking to be forgiven for your ingratitude,” the maid says, and she guesses this is something she’s long had coming. “There were some high and mighty shemlen bitches like you captured at the Winter Palace. We had little use for them if they didn’t comply with their masters’ wishes. They were put in a whorehouse, tied down to beds for anyone to take. Gagged except for when their mouths were stuffed with elven cocks.”

There is a sound of Elven at the door, another maid coming into the room with some incomprehensible comment. They converse for a short while, and then leave her alone without another word she would understand, bound on the bed.

The house is silent after that; she shifts on the bed, but the spell restraining her is less intricate than his would be, and there is no relief when her limbs start to ache. At first, she is too wound up to even try to fall asleep, half-expecting him to show up any minute now, for once truly enraged with her.

He doesn’t, though; does not return home at all, from what she can tell. His bedroom is next door, and she would hear him come in, given how she strains for any noise from outside her room. She finally drifts off, but sleeps fitfully; when she wakes, it is bright outside and in the room, she is unbound, and there is a tray with food and a pitcher of water at the door, but he doesn’t come. Nobody comes; she is left alone for the entire day, supplied with food and water without the doors ever opening. At least she has access to a small privy, she consoles herself, and she is given more than enough water—and even a slice of soap—to be able to wash herself.

She thinks she can hear footsteps in the hall at random moments throughout the day, distant sound of doors opening and closing, but she might as well be mistaken, making these up. Somehow, she expects him—counts on him—to come to her in the evening, when he usually fucks her, and take her in some particularly debauched way, hurting her while making her come again and again. Or perhaps not making her come; perhaps he would fuck her mouth, forcing her to take him in deeper than she has yet been able to do, making her choke on him to remind her she is his to be used however he wants. Afraid as she is of his anger, she grows slightly wet in anticipation, thinking he can appear any moment; but still, there is no sign of him. When she falls asleep, there are no dreams, only a hazy mist of the Fade, and she wakes up scared.

As the second day of her isolation passes, she is increasingly bewildered with the situation. She tries calling out a few times, runs to the door every time her food appears in the room, and pleads for someone to come in and talk to her. She even pounds on the door a few times, but there is no response. She paces the room, unsure what to do; there is nothing in there to occupy her time, the walls white and bare, no furniture except for her bed. She searches underneath the bed, hoping against hope that maybe one of the books she’s been given to read has found its way there, but the servants have been meticulous about keeping the room clean. Perhaps she should try shouting herself hoarse, she thinks, and then remembers him reproaching her for that on the first day. Not that, then.

The house is no longer as silent as it used to seem at first: she can hear various small noises coming from downstairs, as well as from the hall, footsteps, voices, clinking of cutlery, sounds of the servants carrying out their daily tasks; she listens out for the birds outside the window. She’d already discovered some of these sounds when he would leave her in a room for a time out, but that was only for an hour or two at a time, and it ever felt almost a reprieve from the things he had her doing; now it seems her ears are gaining new sensitivity the longer she is alone. In the late evening, she thinks she hears his voice down the hall, and springs out of the bed, her heart beating fast, as she can hear him closer by, almost outside the door, saying something in Elven. Then, however, there is another voice, a female one she doesn’t recognize, and she freezes; he replies something, and the woman laughs. She can hear the sound of the door—the door to his bedroom—opening, then closing; starting no more than a few minutes later, the unmistakable sounds of sex, the woman moaning on the bed she has become so familiar with.

She could weep or scream, but doesn’t dare to. She wonders if he is even thinking about her stuck in the room next door, whether this is all to point our to her how insignificant she is, or just a whim that has nothing to do with her. She tries to imagine _how_ he is fucking that woman (—what does she look like?), how otherworldly it must for her, in bed with her god. Her mind is good at supplying her with images of him, his face, his body, with memories of his touch, the way he moves when pressing against her, and she doesn’t know if she’s more aroused or horrified with how wanton she has become, in the absence of any other occupation.

The third day is a nightmare. She walks around the room, step after step, trying to figure out its size in various kinds of measurements, anything to keep her mind occupied. Later, she tries looking out of the window, but there are five sturdy bars on its outside (she counts them time and again, reflexively) that prevent her from getting a good glance out at the garden, and she has to contend herself with watching the way light changes. Luckily, it is late spring, and the days are long; if she were to spend her time in darkness, she’d lose herself much sooner.

He comes to her the fourth day in the evening, his face a mask of patience.

“Solas,” she says immediately, getting to her feet (a mistake, she thinks later; she should have knelt). “Solas, I am so sorry, I have made a mistake. Please forgive me.”

He studies her face for a long moment.

“There is nothing to forgive,” he says. “You’ve done nothing I didn’t expect you to do.”

Relief floods through her and she takes a step towards him, but something in his manner stops her.

“Solas?” she asks, her heart dropping again. It would be easier if he were angry after all; she’d be able to deal with his rage better than with this faked kindness, she thinks.

“Nonetheless, I believe you need some time on your own to reconsider your behaviour,” he says, and silences her with a gesture when she begins to protest. “Think over what you can have and what you have almost forfeited. How long do you think I should give you in this room? A week? A month? Two months?”

Her fear must be evident in her face, because his expression softens a little.

“Perhaps that would be too much,” he says. “Still. You’ll be provided with food and water, obviously, and there will be magic in place to make sure you don’t harm yourself… and that you don’t pleasure yourself, either. Nobody coming in, no distractions.”

“Solas, please,” she says, helplessly. “I already know that I have done wrong. I will never do anything like that again. Please, I will be good from now on.”

He only shakes his head, and then leaves the room, locking the door shut, even as she pleads for his mercy, repeats his name—Solas, then, giving up, _Fen_ _’Harel_ —with increasing desperation.


	8. Chapter 8

It seems that she cannot dream at night anymore, the Fade staying void and empty for her; when she wakes in the morning, she realizes this must be another ploy of his. A few more days of this and she is bound to go insane, she thinks. There is nothing to do in the room, except walk around, listen for noises from the outside, and sleep; she draws out her meals and her washing, but it doesn’t help much, if it does any. She makes lists in her head, of various things that come into her mind, the pantheon of Elven gods, canticles of the Chant of Light, major cities in Free Marches and their past rulers; all the people she knew as the Inquisitor, although that makes her cry, since most of them are dead now, some enslaved. Soon enough, she starts whispering to herself, singing quietly, snatches of old songs. She wishes she had an Orlesian romance to look through, now.

He brings women to his bedroom on at least a couple more occasions, and she thinks it is actually _two_ women one of these times. Again, she cannot help but imagine how the situation is playing out, wish she was in the other room, if only just to watch. Would he make her participate? She has been with women before, he has probably gleaned as much from roaming in her dreams. Frustrated, she squirms around her bed, unable to do anything about her arousal.

About six days in, she is growing convinced she is about to go crazy from the lack of external stimuli. It is becoming difficult for her to fall asleep, and it is long dark outside when she still tosses and turns on the bed.

She hears no sounds in the hall, and thus all but jumps out of the bed when the door opens and he comes into the room. She cries out his name, her voice strange to her own ears, but he clamps his hand over her mouth and pushes her to the bed. He has her get into the strange position on her knees, with her hands reaching out to her ankles, and she is so glad of the touch that she complies without hesitation. He fucks her rough and long, pulling on her hair, pinching her nipples, and she climaxes twice before he comes, only to leave the room almost at once. When he returns for more, a day and a half later, it is during daytime, and she has a chance to look at him for a moment before he turns her around. The third time, she tries to get herself into the position unprompted, hoping to have guessed his wishes; he strokes the side of her face for a long moment after he is finished, but still doesn’t speak to her. His weight on her feels divine, and she whimpers softly when he gets off the bed and leaves.

This continues for a few more days; she starts waiting for him, obsessing, listening out for the sound of his footsteps. She cannot fall asleep for her arousal after his visits, spends her time considering things he has had her do before her attempted escape; she tries to remember all the dreams she’s had about him, wondering how much of them has truly been her imagination and if he is planning to make any of them reality. She wishes for his hands on her body, be it gentle and teasing, or rough and punishing, more than she would have thought possible.

He takes her from the behind every but one time, perhaps two weeks after his first visit, at night, when he has her lie on her back, legs bent and raised to her chest; she comes mere seconds after he enters her. He smiles, and unexpected elation spreads through her body. She rocks her hips to meet his thrusts, moaning in pleasure; he chokes her lightly when she becomes too loud, but this only makes her second orgasm all the stronger.

When she wakes the next morning, there is no food for her in the room; momentarily afraid, she approaches the door gingerly, only to discover it slightly ajar. She cranes her neck to look out, but the hall looks empty; she takes a moment to gather her thoughts, and takes a tentative step out of the room, only to pause in the doorway. She should wait, she thinks, in case it is a test. At the very moment, however, a maid appears in the hallway, and gestures for her to follow.

She is taken to the bathroom, where she is bathed, the hair on her head washed, dried and styled, while another maid waxes her arms, legs, and mound before spreading some balm or salve on her skin to soothe the momentary itching. They conclude their work with putting some makeup on her face, and spraying a whiff of perfume on her neck and behind her ears.

“Thank you,” she says quietly when the maids are done, and they look surprised.

“The drawing room,” one of them says, briefly.

Her heart thumps in her chest as she heads downstairs, anxious and hopeful at the same time. He waits for her sitting on a divan, stunningin a dark violet elven robe; she pauses a moment before approaching him, and sinking to her knees at his side.

He puts his hand on her head, strokes her gently, first her hair, then her face and neck.

“Get up,” he says. “Sit with me.”

“I am sorry,” she whispers, looking up at him.

“Sit with me,” he repeats, and gestures towards the low table, set with food and water. “We have a breakfast to eat.”

She half-wants to tell him it’s not foodshe wants right now, but she stops herself, rises to her feet and takes a seat at his side. He cups her face with one hand, and kisses her until she is quite out of breath.

They eat then, although she truly doesn’t feel very hungry. He talks to her throughout the breakfast, lightly, about the weather, about the war coming to its end, about Halamshiral; no word about whether he intends to go on punishing her, what he intends her to do next. When he stops, at least, she plucks up the courage to ask him.

“Sol—” she begins, and bites her tongue. “Fen’Harel.”

“You may call me Solas if you want to,” he says, his voice mild. “I will consider it an endearment, coming from you.”

She blushes, and takes a sip of water to steel herself.

“Am I forgiven?” she asks, a pleading note to her voice. “Will you be still punishing me?”

“I have already told you there is nothing to forgive,” he says; he leans back a little, looks at her thoughtfully. “And yes, I believe we can put your… foolishness behind us now. No more punishments for that.”

She breathes a little more freely.

“However,” he says, and there is a glimmer in his eye she doesn’t quite like. “My expectations will be higher from now on, and if you cannot take the pain or the pleasure I have for you, fulfil the tasks I set for you, you _will_ be punished.”

Her heart fluttersat the mention of pain, and she blushes deeper red, too relieved with the idea of being temporarily safe to consider all the implications of his words.

“I am mindful of your limitations, of course,” he says; she recalls, vaguely, his being so reasonable and matter-of-fact towards her at the very beginning, and how she detested it then. Now, after the weeks of silence, she drinks in every word. “I will not expect you to be capable of everything at once. But in time, you will be excellent, my little pet.”

She actually gasps half in pleasure at the word, as if it were an electric shock delivered to her pussy. He laughs.

“Come,” he says, and stands up. “There is something I want you to see.”

He leads her back upstairs, this time to his bedroom. When they pass the little room where she spent the last few weeks, she shivers, involuntarily; he regards her carefully.

“You won’t be sleeping in there anytime soon,” he says and she heaves a happy sigh; a moment after, she realizes with a start how powerful a weapon against her this small space has become, and she wonders, for a fleeting second, if he will be using it to punish her in the future.

Then, however, she is through the door to his bedroom and notices, immediately, what he wanted to show her.

The bed has been made, meticulously; but there, on the top of the covers, there is a dainty, beautiful item that seems spun out of silver lace; and another, a thin, delicate cord, coiled around the first one.

A collar, and a leash.

She inhales sharply, and looks at him, an unspoken question in her eyes.

“Touch them,” he says; she does, discovering that the collar is fairly soft, but the leash, for all its thinness, surprisingly sturdy. It splits in two at the very end, and there are two hoops on the opposite sides of the collar into which the leash can be hooked. It must be for show rather than for more practical usage; perhaps to get her more used to the concept, she thinks, her fingers feeling the collar from all possible angles. She cannot help but squeeze her legs together, her cunt pulsating with heat.

“Do you want to put it on yourself, or should I?” he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle.

She hesitates; finally, she raises the collar to her neck and wraps it carefully around, her pulse quick, breath catching in her throat. Then, however, she waits for him to clasp the collar close; he does so, looking her in the eye. A moment later, he attaches the leash to the collar, and kisses her mouth.

“You look perfect,” he says; she nods, lowers her head, and kisses his fingers in gratitude.

She is all in his hands now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to the OP for the prompt! This wasn't exactly a story I would have thought I would write, but it was very interesting to push myself and produce it.
> 
> Many thanks to my (awesome, awesome) beta, and her words of wisdom and encouragement.
> 
> And thank you to all who have read and left kudos and/or commented!
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> There might be a bonus scene coming. We'll see.


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